


We'll Be The Last Ones (Standing Up Strong)

by novel_concept26



Category: Glee
Genre: F/F
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2011-10-09
Updated: 2011-10-09
Packaged: 2017-11-06 15:15:42
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,600
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/420302
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/novel_concept26/pseuds/novel_concept26
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>People die in stories all the time, and for the life of her, Santana cannot make Brittany stop comparing her to them.</p>
            </blockquote>





	We'll Be The Last Ones (Standing Up Strong)

Title: We'll Be The Last Ones (Standing Up Strong)  
Pairing: Santana Lopez/Brittany Pierce  
Rating: PG  
Disclaimer: Nothing owned, no profit gained.  
Spoilers: Glee: through S1; additional spoilers for Animorphs, BtVS, Moulin Rouge.  
Summary: People die in stories all the time, and for the life of her, Santana cannot make Brittany stop comparing her to them.  
A/N: Title from Augustana's "Just Stay Here Tonight."

  
**1**   


They’re in third grade when Brittany bursts in on her story for the first time.

“Whatcha reading?” All blonde hair and bony elbows, Brittany thumps down beside her in the grass, landing half on top of Santana in the process. “It looks weird.”

Santana coughs, pushing at her best friend’s shoulder until Brittany obediently lifts up from the organs she’s crushing. “Get off. You’re killing me.”

“Am not,” Brittany laughs, adjusting her head against Santana’s breastbone. “If I was killing you, there’d be a lot less talking, and then I’d have to CPR you or whatever, ‘cuz I’d be sad if you were gone.”

Santana raises an eyebrow and gives up, flopping back down onto the sweatshirt she’s using as a pillow. The grass in the Lopez yard is thinning, littered with leaves as autumn begins to take hold, and she can’t help shivering in the gentle breeze. She shouldn’t be out here at all, probably, but pretty soon, the red and gold will give way to thick blankets of snow. It’s good to get what she can out of the yard before all of her favorite reading places are overrun by ugly, half-deformed snowmen.

“So?” Brittany presses again, reaching up and tapping the page Santana is on. “Whatcha reading? Is it good? Should I try it?”

“What do you care? You don’t even _like_ reading,” Santana reminds her, somewhat witheringly. She regrets it immediately when Brittany’s head bobs a little, her shoulders curling up toward her ears. Brittany always folds up all funny when she’s sad.

For the last two and a half years, Santana has made it her life’s work to never, ever make Brittany sad.

She blows out a frustrated sigh, dropping the book onto her stomach and gently touching a palm to the top of Brittany’s messy hair. “Sorry. I didn’t mean that. You just got here at a really intense part. Surprised me.”

“Intense how?” Brittany mumbles against her shirt, shoulders still protectively cradled around the sides of her head. Santana strokes her hair again, slowly, the way she does when her dog gets scared by thunderstorms.

“It’s kind of hard to explain.”

“Oh,” Brittany says, burrowing her nose deeper into worn red fabric. Santana sucks in a breath.

“I could try?” she attempts hesitantly. “I mean. If you really want to know. But it’s kind of scary, and I really don’t want you to get more nightmares—“

“I won’t!” Brittany promises at once, her head jerking up. Her eyes grab at Santana’s, bright and blisteringly hopeful. “I promise I won’t, Santana, honest. I’m getting better.”

“You called me at three in the morning last week,” Santana reminds her gently. “Remember? After you watched the part with giant Ursula again when you swore you wouldn’t?”

“I just wanted to get to the wedding,” Brittany defends herself, absently swiping a crispy brown leaf out of Santana’s hair. “I love that part.”

Santana can’t help but smile. The wedding scene in that stupid movie is pretty lame, except when she watches it with Brittany. Brittany always hauls her by the wrist off the couch and makes her stand where Prince Eric belongs, right before settling the fake plastic crown she got for Christmas over her own hair. It gets pretty complicated, with Lord Tubbington playing the part of about seven different merpeople, the crab, and the fat fish, but Santana’s gotten good at the bowing and the waving part. And Brittany’s smile always shines so much brighter by the time the credits roll that it’s kind of worth it.

The way Brittany always draws close like she’s going to kiss Santana, darting away in a fit of giggles at the last second every time, isn’t so bad, either.

She leans forward until her forehead is nudged up against Brittany’s now. “I’ll figure out the timestamp, okay? That way, you can fast forward to the right part next time and not get all the scary stuff.”

“Great!” Brittany nudges back. “Now. Tell me about your book.”

“Only if you _promise_ you’ll tell me if it’s too much,” Santana warns. “It’s not a very nice series.”

“There are animals on the cover,” Brittany points out, picking the paperback up gingerly and poking the image on the front. “Birds are nice.”

“ _That_ bird is,” Santana admits. “But only ‘cuz he’s a person.”

“How can a person be a bird?” Brittany experimentally flips through a few pages before settling it carefully back the way she found it.

“He’s only a bird because an alien gave him special powers,” Santana explains. “Him and his friends. They can turn into animals. Y’know. Animorphs.”

Brittany sits up fast, folding her legs beneath her butt and grinning. “That doesn’t sound scary at all. That sounds awesome! I want to turn into animals!”

“They turn into animals to fight other aliens,” Santana continues, folding her hands behind her head. “Bad ones. They slither into your ears and take over your brain.”

She watches Brittany’s mouth screw up the way it does when she’s thinking hard. “But the good guys stop them, right?”

“I don’t know,” Santana says honestly. “I haven’t gotten that far, yet. My dad says there are a lot of books, and if I’m good, he’ll buy me one every Saturday until I’ve read them all.”

Brittany pokes a finger into her mouth, chewing on the nail until Santana bats her hand away. “Are there a lot of animals?”

“Lots of aliens, too,” Santana cautions, already seeing where this is going. “Lots and lots. Some of them are nice, but most of them are big and scary.”

“But lots of animals,” Brittany presses. “Birds, and…what else? Cats? Tigers?”

“Dolphins,” Santana admits reluctantly. This is a bad idea, probably a terrible one. Brittany’s going to be calling her at midnight every day until fifth grade. But somehow, she has a hard time denying the grin sweeping across her friend’s pretty face.

“Dolphins are so cute!”

“Evil aliens,” Santana repeats. “Evil, bad, _brain steal-y_ aliens.”

“I _know_ ,” Brittany giggles. “Lots of aliens, I heard you. But the kids get to turn into stuff to fight them, and, come on. They’re the good guys. Good guys always win.”

Santana sighs through a smile. “You’re going to ask, aren’t you?”

“Pleaaase?” Brittany clambers on top of Santana again, her knees bent in the brittle grass on either side of Santana’s bony hips. “Come on, San, I promise I’ll be quiet and I won’t even interrupt that much.”

“Yes, you will,” Santana snorts. Brittany bends down until their foreheads are touching again, until Santana’s eyes cross trying to keep that brilliant smile in focus.

“I’ll try not to. Come on. Read to me?”

Santana bucks her hips, sending Brittany tumbling down against her chest again. She reaches for the dislodged book, flips the pages until she has reached her place again. “You’re going to be behind.”

Brittany snuggles in, chilly nose bumping against Santana’s warm skin. “Catch me up.”

So Santana does, reading until the sun sinks below the trees, until the porch light flickers on and her mother calls for dinner. And, when Brittany comes by the next day, she reads some more—and the day after that, and the day after that. It becomes a routine more quickly than she expects, even when the nights grow long and the snow begins to fall; every afternoon, Brittany turns up in her living room, or her basement, or on her bed, snuggled up against her while she reads through the adventures of five shape-shifting kids and their blue-horse-boy friend. Brittany is there when the stories are funny, and when they turn unexpectedly brutal. She laughs at all the right place, hides her face when it starts to look grim, cheers when, book after book, the kids narrowly escape evil Yeerk clutches.

When they reach the final book in the series, tangled together on her unmade bed, Brittany buries her face in Santana’s neck and cries for ten minutes at Rachel’s death. Santana, battling tears of her own, lays the book aside and wraps her arms around her sobbing friend.

“Do you want me to stop?”

Brittany shakes her head, shoulders trembling. Her tears dribble down under Santana’s collar, wet and uncomfortable. “N-no.”

“You sure?” Santana gives her a gentle shake. “You haven’t cried this hard in a while, and I just—“

“I wanna know,” Brittany hiccups. “I wanna know what h-happens.”

“We don’t have to,” Santana soothes. “I can look it up later or something and just tell you. It’s okay.”

“It’s _not_ okay,” Brittany moans, jerking her face away from Santana’s skin at last. Red-rimmed eyes bore into Santana’s, feverishly miserable. “It’s. She’s. Santana, they _killed_ you.”

Santana blinks. “What are you talking about? Britt, I’m right here, I’m not goin’—“

“They _killed_ her,” Brittany repeats, a little less hysterically this time. “They killed Rachel. They killed _you_.”

“I’m not—“

“You’re Rachel!” Brittany exclaims. “You’re all cool and tough and hardcore, and I get to fly and protect you, and we’re supposed to be together forever, and now—“

“I’m not Rachel,” Santana interrupts. “It’s just a book, B. Just a stupid book. I’m not dead, look.” She lifts a hand from Brittany’s back and holds it between their faces, wiggling each finger deliberately. “Dead people can’t do that, right? I’m _fine_.”

“But she’s…she’s…”

“Just a character in a book,” Santana says quietly. “A totally badass character who gave it all for her world, maybe, sure, but—you know? I’m okay. I’m right here.”

Brittany sinks back into her embrace, her breathing slowly evening out. “Okay,” she whispers at last, squeezing as tightly as she can. Santana rubs her back.

“You really think I’m that awesome? Like Rachel?”

Brittany makes a muffled sound of agreement and mashes her face against Santana’s chest. Despite herself, Santana can’t help but grin.

She always did like Rachel best.

  


**2**  


When they’re in eighth grade, Brittany walks in on her again. She’s curled up in front of her computer, devouring the DVDs she’ll never admit to borrowing from Puckerman, when the bedroom door bangs open. Brittany stumbles in, arms laden with art supplies and a book Santana is pretty sure she’s never opened.

“What the hell?” Santana demands, trying her best not to look like she’s just jumped a mile. “Britt? …why do you have glitter and a history textbook?”

“I’m supposed to make a war replica thingy. For, like, World War I?” Brittany replies as she discards the whole crap-pile onto Santana’s bedspread. “You think glitter will make good gunpowder?”

Santana blinks. “Actually…yeah.”

“Great!” Brittany beams. “Now, what should I use to make the dinosaurs?”

Santana shakes her head, spinning her chair around in a quick circle. “Britt, why’d you bring everything _here_?

Brittany looks up from the colored bits of cardboard she’s sorting through. “You can help, right? I really don’t know if I can make a stegosaurus all by myself—hey, what’s that?”

Santana fumbles for the laptop screen behind her, clicking it shut without a glance. “What’s what?”

“ _That_.” Brittany points, her whole face lit up with curiosity. Santana shrugs.

“No idea what you’re talking about. So, about this stego-whatever—“

“ _Santana_.” She sinks back in her chair as Brittany stomps over and eases the laptop open again. Frozen in mid-battle, a blonde girl hefts a heavy-looking crossbow on the screen.

“Are you watching porn?”

” _What_?” Aghast, Santana swivels around. “God, no! Jesus, Britt!”

“Well, then, what is it?” Genuinely interested, Brittany reaches for the DVD case left so foolishly out on the desk. “Buffy? That’s such a cool name…”

“Is not,” Santana grumbles. “It’s a stupid name. A stupid name for a stupid show, and aren’t you supposed to be working on—“

“A whole show, huh?” Brittany hikes herself up on the desk and shifts the laptop so she can better see the screen. “Is it good? Do you like it? Can I watch too?”

“It’s stupid,” Santana replies, rubbing her neck in embarrassment. “Borrowed it from Puckerman. Think he’s always jacking off to it or something, he just goes on and on…I wanted to watch a few episodes to shut him up.”

“But you like it,” Brittany notes, grinning. “You think it’s cool. Please, San, can I watch it with you? Puck’s not very nice to me right now, and maybe he would be if—“

She trails off, kicking her feet. Santana catches one and unconsciously fiddles with the laces.

“Yeah, okay,” she says at last. “But it’s stupid, okay? I warned you. And it’s scary sometimes.”

“Like Animorphs scary?” Brittany’s eyes darken. Santana gives the toe of her sneaker a light pat.

“Different. Worse, probably, since it’s for grown-ups. I mean, _I_ don’t think it’s scary, but—“

“Let’s watch it anyway,” Brittany insists. “I like watching stuff with you. You always make it better. I don’t get the nightmares.”

That much is true, Santana supposes. The _Animorphs_ series drew a lot of emotions out of Brittany, but never once did she wake up screaming because of it. For a girl who spent years despising lighting storms and wool gloves, that was fairly impressive.

She picks up the laptop and brings it to the bed, gesturing for Brittany to push her vast array of art supplies onto the floor. As they settle in, she pokes a finger against Brittany’s nose, eyebrows drawn sternly together.

“Don’t character assign this time, B.”

Brittany lifts an eyebrow uncertainly. “Don’t…?”

“People die in this show,” Santana elaborates. “All the time. Don’t pick one to be me or you, okay? Or, like. Quinn. …Hudson might be okay, though.”

Brittany elbows her, laughing. “Okay. No character assigning. Deal.”

They begin again with the pilot, which Santana doesn’t mind. The show is ridiculous, with lame fight scenes and stupid nineties hair, but it’s kind of surprisingly awesome. The whole cast is pretty, the vampires are kind of creepy, and she really likes how Buffy—stupid name and all—kicks the living shit out of anybody who looks at her wrong.

She also likes the way Brittany clings to her hand whenever the music grows particularly ominous, how Brittany laughs at Xander’s jokes and tilts her head curiously at Willow’s. When loud noises erupt, Brittany jumps halfway into Santana’s lap, almost sending the laptop careening off the bed altogether. She hadn’t thought it possible, but maybe watching this with another person—with _Brittany_ —makes it even better.

The old routine comes back into play, with Brittany coming over after school to curl up and watch a few episodes each day. It’s lucky Puckerman owns the whole damn series, even if Santana does have to hold his lunch above his head when he gets too cocky to fork over the third season. Not for the first time, his serious delay in reaching puberty like the rest of the guys in their grade turns out to be her favorite thing.

Or second favorite, as the sensation of Brittany’s head bumping lightly against her shoulder while Buffy and Angel do seductively-slow martial arts on-screen is turning out to be the best part of her day.

For a while, Brittany does a great job of keeping up her end of the bargain. She yelps, jumps, and sheds a few tears here and there when main characters bite it, but for the most part, she keeps herself reined in. Never once, over the course of five whole seasons, does she lose control.

And then, unexpectedly, as the sixth season is drawing to a close, she comes apart.

It’s been weird for a few weeks now, Santana has to admit, ever since the introduction of the Tara character. Something about her just strikes a strange chord in Santana, making her chest feel uncomfortably tight—a feeling that grows all the stronger when Brittany scoots nearer on the bed and slips an arm through hers. The whole lesbian storyline thing is weird (although not half as gross as she’d expected from Puckerman’s pornographic ravings), and made all the weirder by…

Well, she’s not entirely sure what, but all the same, she knows something is different about watching these later seasons.

It’s not even that Tara really _reminds_ her of anybody in particular; she’s shy, a little nerdy, kind of glaringly pathetic. If there’s anybody on the show whom Santana can relate to, it’s probably that Faith chick: totally badass, if a little batshit crazy, and smokin’ hot. At school, Brittany likes to joke that they’ve got a Buffy/Faith dynamic between them, “except you’re not a murderer, and I don’t bone dead guys.” If anything, it should be Faith who gets the gears of emotional meltdown turning.

But it’s not—it’s Tara. Tara, who looks perfectly happy, perfectly in love, only to have the moment shattered by a single stray bullet. Tara, the stupid lesbian who gets barely anything done in the whole damn time she’s on-screen—and it’s _her_ damn death that sends Brittany into hysterics.

Santana dives for the pause button and very nearly throws the computer aside in her haste to gather Brittany into her arms. The wracking sobs aren’t quite as brutal as with Rachel’s death, but they certainly aren’t pleasant; as she rocks Brittany rhythmically from side to side, Santana finds herself equating this experience with the death of something small, yet beloved—a pet, maybe. Rachel may have sent Brittany tumbling into grandparent-loss territory, but this really isn’t much better.

“Shhh,” she hums against Brittany’s ear, rolling her eyes when strands of gold paste themselves between her lips. “Shh, B, come on. It’s just a TV show.”

“S-she’s _gone_ ,” Brittany bawls. “They—“

“Maybe, hey, maybe Willow will bring her back. Like with Buffy.” Somewhere deep inside, Santana recognizes the sheer idiocy of this moment, and pushes it aside. Fiction or not, anything that gets to Brittany this deeply must matter. Brittany always matters.

“N-n-no!” Brittany cries. “She’s gone, she’s _dead_. Why does everybody always _die_?”

Santana doesn’t have an answer for that one. She settles for kissing the top of Brittany’s head, rocking her steadily, humming reassurances until the girl in her arms calms.

At last, Brittany pulls away, wiping violently at her eyes. “Sorry. Sorry. I promised.”

“No problem,” Santana replies, trying not to sound shaken. “Who, uh. Who’d you accidentally—who’d she make you think of?”

Brittany sniffles. “Willow loved her,” she says. “Willow loved her more than anything in the world. Like she was her best friend, and…and…”

Santana gets it. Her hand lays atop Brittany’s, twining their pinkies together awkwardly. She smiles.

“I’m a little insulted, B. You’re equating me with the cheap-ass chick who dresses like my grandmother’s bridge club.”

“I think she was pretty,” Brittany manages, wiping her nose with her free hand. Santana laughs.

“Pretty, huh?”

“Not as pretty as you.” Brittany nudges her with one shoulder, shyly staring down at the carpet. “But she saw things, you know, that other people didn’t. Maybe nobody really got her, maybe nobody really knew how to get close…except, y’know, for Willow. But she still saw things in people. She was kind of great.”

As they settle back in, retrieving the computer and pressing play, Santana decides that maybe Faith can take a backseat as her favorite character. Just for the moment.

  
**3**  


“I want to—“

“No.”

“But, San—“

“No.”

“Can I please just…”

“Brittany,” Santana huffs, stripping the DVD case out of her friend’s hand and fairly throwing it back onto the shelf. “Absolutely _not_. We are _not_ watching this stupid goddamn movie.”

“Why not?” Brittany exclaims, eyes wide. “It’s a musical! We could check out songs for Glee Club! Mr. Schuester would be all proud and stuff if we showed initi…in…that army thing Riley was in.”

“Initiative,” Santana fills in, rolling her eyes. “Absolutely fuckin’ not, B. You know what happens when we watch sad stuff together. Or read sad stuff. Or listen to songs about funerals.”

“This one isn’t sad, though!” Snatching the DVD back up from the shelf, Brittany waves it beneath her nose. “Look at the cover! Is that the cover of a sad movie?”

“Rachel told me the end,” Santana replies obstinately. “It’s sad.”

“Well, _I_ want to watch it,” Brittany sniffs. “You don’t have to watch with me if you don’t want, but _I’m_ going to rent it.”

Santana watches her stomp to the counter, grabbing two boxes of Junior Mints as she goes. She shakes her head, hands on her hips, waiting.

Brittany glances back, mouth twisted in embarrassment. “San? You have the card.”

Sixteen years old, Santana thinks as she strides to the counter to pay, and thoroughly whipped. This will not end well. This has _never_ ended well. Every series they have ever watched together, every movie or book that ever ended in death of any kind—hell, even the newest damn _Toy Story_ movie sent Brittany into overdrive. It’s as though everyone who has ever died in pop culture automatically becomes, at the moment of their destruction, Santana Lopez—at least, in Brittany’s clear blue eyes.

This is just not going to end well at _all_.

Still, she pays. And obediently drives them back to the Lopez residence. And grudgingly throws the disc into the player in her beautifully swag basement.

She’s going to kill Berry when this ends the way she knows it will, she thinks with a sigh. Just on principle. Because without Berry, there is no way Brittany would be so goddamn adamant on a fucking musical.

Much less _this_ motherfucking one.

“I swear to God, B, if you compare me to the damn hooker—“

“I _won’t_ ,” Brittany insists, shushing her boldly with a hand against her lips. Santana blows a breath against the soft palm and leans into the couch, feeling the warm weight of Brittany’s head as it drops down upon her thigh.

There’s no point in pushing the issue further, she knows, or begging for a promise. It’s not like Brittany does this thing on purpose; she just legitimately _cannot_ stop from tying the end of every emotional string around Santana’s wrist. Which doesn’t make Santana angry or anything, because, really, it’s pretty flattering. And she understands. It’s hard to distance her feelings from Brittany, too.

It’s just that, when things in the world remind her of Brittany, she doesn’t tend to burst into explosive tears. Or go into full-blown panic attacks. Or…scream…

Still, she grudgingly has to admit that this movie could be worse. The Scottish dude from Star Wars is cute, and Nicole Kidman is surprisingly un-creepy. The songs, too, are right up Schue’s pedo-vest-ridden alley, being covers of well-known rock ballads. Maybe they could choreograph that whole bit from the elephant scene, with Brittany donning the beautiful red dress while Santana serenades her—

Although, in fairness, it’s much more likely that the red dress would go on Berry while Finnocence bastardizes the music. Or, even better, on Fabray while Rachel lezzes it up. At least then the whole routine would be severely entertaining for a multitude of reasons.

Okay, so, _Moulin Rouge_ could be worse. The characters are likeable, the camera work is trippy, there’s a lot of sex jokes. Brittany’s head bounces each time she laughs or hums along to a snippet of music, and Santana finds herself smiling as her hand reflexively runs through long blonde hair. It’s been a while since they’ve had time to do a movie night together, what with all the rehearsals and bone-breaking Cheerio workouts. She’s forgotten how much she missed time spent just with Brittany, just because they’re…them. It’s nice.

Until the very last stupid scene.

Foolishly, up until the play sequence, Santana managed to convince herself Berry was lying all along. It wouldn’t be beyond that deranged little troll to come up with a significant fib about the end of this film, all to push Santana away from coming up with performances Rachel herself probably wants to do. Maybe she was making the whole tragedy aspect up for her own purposes, just to be a bitch.

Hey, Santana can’t judge that too heartily.

Everything just seems so perfect, falling into place: the music, the lovers reunited, the defeat of that stupid prick with the mustache. Head nestled against her thigh, Brittany sighs contentedly. Everything is—

Tuberculosis.

Well, _great. There she goes._ Nicole Kidman takes the flying swan-dive off this mortal coil, and Brittany, in perfect time with Scottish Guy’s breakdown, begins to sniffle. Santana’s hands clench against the couch cushions, frantic. The crying is bad, and sometimes it lasts for a really damn long time, and she just isn’t up for it today.

It seems perfectly reasonable, then, to grasp Brittany’s shoulders and haul her up until their foreheads are jammed together. She sucks in a breath.

“I’m not dead.”

Brittany’s eyes widen, her mouth trembling. A lone tear sneaks down one pale cheek. Santana reaches up and thumbs it away, the pads of her fingers pressing against soft skin.

“I’m not dead,” she repeats resolutely. “I’m right here, and maybe I’m kind of like a whore sometimes, but I _promise_ , I’m not going to start coughing up blood anytime soon. I promise. I’m here, and you’re here, and yeah, everything dies, but I _swear_ , I’m not going anywhere. Not now, not without you. So you don’t have to cry, because I’m here, and you’re my best friend, and I—I— _goddammit_.”

She surges forward with more energy than she knew she possessed, mouth crashing against Brittany’s. It’s not the first time they’ve kissed—fuck, they’ve done so much more than just _kissing_ —but she can’t remember ever sinking this much emotion into the action before. Not with anyone, in fact. Her lips feel hot, her tongue desperate as it combs through Brittany’s mouth, tracing a thousand tiny promises that burn out as quickly as they are made. She feels Brittany gasp and meld into her embrace, strong hands reaching up to cradle her head.

“You’re my best friend,” she manages to heave out, chest slamming into Brittany’s as she sends them both toppling back against the couch. “You’re my best friend, and you have _got_ to _stop_ watching _sad movies_.”

Brittany rises up, kissing her back, nodding, and it’s all Santana can do not to laugh. They’re crazy, she knows. Crazy and completely unlike everyone else in the world. Which is what makes them so absolutely awesome. Because everyone else does what these characters do: they die. They break. Their stories end.

As Brittany twists her head away from the next kiss, giggling through her tears, Santana can’t help but think that the greatest thing about them is that their story goes on. It goes on, and it will keep going—forever, if she can help it.

Dying’s for suckers. Here, with Brittany giggling under her, hair in a mouth burning with the urge to keep kissing, Santana knows without a doubt that they are better than that. Better than favorite characters, second favorites, sad, diseased hookers—

She bends her head and captures Brittany’s lips again, whispering over and over the truth she has always clung to:

“You’re my best friend, and _we are not going anywhere_.”  



End file.
